


five times arthur met merlin at an airport (and one time he didn't)

by Asterin



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bisexuality, Canonical Character Death, Daddy Issues, Falling In Love, Fate & Destiny, Feelings, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Modern Era, POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Sibling Bonding, Uther Pendragon Dies (Merlin), Uther Pendragon's A+ parenting, but that's canon really, that's the only death in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-05 15:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21210692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asterin/pseuds/Asterin
Summary: The first time it happens, Arthur is twelve years old.





	1. the first time

**Author's Note:**

> will i ever stop starting new projects without finishing my others? no. no i will not.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Uther tries to teach his children humility, Morgana tries to be grown up, and Arthur just really really wants to go home.

The first time it happens, Arthur is twelve years old.

It’s 12pm on a sunny summer Sunday and he’s sitting on a suitcase somewhere in the middle of Terminal 3, Heathrow Airport. It’s hot. He’s bored out of his bloody wits. Taking his father’s plane would’ve been so much better but during a lecture about humility and not separating themselves from _“__the people”_ Uther had decided that this would be a _“lesson in patience”_ and that was that. So far, all Arthur is learning is that being humble sucks and he wants to go home.

Morgana, standing beside him with her hands clasped demurely at her waist, seems unbothered. She’s in a dress that matches her eyes, an expensive and stupidly frilly thing; hair twisted into two tight braids. She steps forward, then back, swaying gently in a waltz of her own design, watching the crowd with a faintly amused expression.

Arthur tugs at his tie.

“Stop that.” Uther’s hand comes down over his and he pouts. In Uther’s other hand, resting against Morgana’s shoulder, are their passports and boarding passes, clasped tightly in his long fingers. He’s wearing his signet ring, above his wedding band. Arthur fixates on the light glinting red off the stone, lets his eyes unfocus and watches it blur and dance.

Minutes tick by.

Uther leaves to speak to some airport official, to complain about boarding times or fix seating arrangements or whatever it is adults talk about at airports. With the ring and the light gone, he turns his attention to Morgana. “Hey,” he says.

She arches a dark eyebrow but doesn’t look at him.

“_Hey_.”

A muscle twitches at her jaw – so very like their father. She turns away from him, taking sudden interest in the weather forecast on a screen above the vending machine.

He reaches up to tug on her hair but her hand catches his wrist before he’s even halfway. “_Ow!_”

“Don’t you _dare_, Arthur,” Morgana hisses, glaring. In that moment she manages to look and sound so much like their nanny that he can’t resist tugging her other braid with his free hand, lighting fast.

Briefly she seems ready to slap him, but then she takes a steadying breath and lifts her chin. “Grow up, Arthur, for God’s sake,” she says. “You’re behaving like a child.”  
He tugs his wrist out of her grip. “I _am_ a child. _You_’re a child. We’re both children, Morgana.” He flicks her on the nose, but she only scowls at him.

“_Actually_,” she says, standing straighter, “I’m a teenager now.”

Her recent birthday had only fed her ego_. _ That, and the bank account their father had set up for her, giving her full access to the contained funds because he _“trusted her to be sensible_.”

“Maybe. But–” Arthur grins, stepping closer– “I’m taller.” To prove his point, he bumps his chin against her forehead, cackling when she shoves him back.

Maybe she’ll actually slap him now, he thinks. Uther sure would _love_ that. Arthur would be the one in trouble but still, it’s the principle of the thing.

As soon as she has her space back, though, Morgana resumes her perfect-daughter stance: hands clasped, heels together, back straight. She gives him a look one might give a dying beetle, then turns away, silent.

Arthur pokes her in the ribs, unable to contain his laughter as she flinches. “When - we – were – little,” he says, punctuating each word with a poke, chasing after her as she squirms away, “You were never too good for a tussle. C’_mon_ Morgana, don’t be such a _g_ _irl_.”

Finally, _finally_ , she socks him square in gut. He gasps, winded, but pokes her again for good measure. She grabs his finger, twists – the knuckle clicks and it _hurts_ but he’s still laughing because at last he got her to crack. Uther’s not watching but, you know – it’s the principle.

“_Stop_ it, Arthur!” she yells.

And he stops, but not because of her. He stops because there’s a boy in the crowd, just past the vending machine, with messy dark hair and strikingly pretty eyes. He’s clutching the hand of his mother, biting his lip, and _he’s_ watching. Arthur feels the wind go out of him again but this time it’s not because of Morgana’s fist. She hasn’t moved.

No, she’s frozen, watching him watch the boy. There’s the beginnings of a smirk playing around her mouth. Slowly, she lets go of his finger and covers her mouth with one hand. Giggles.

Arthur looks at her, then back to the boy. He’s smiling. Arthur grins back, sheepish. For a moment, it’s just the two of them, locking eyes across the space, and then he looks away. He rubs his sore finger, scratches at his neck. His face feels hot and he’s not sure why. When he looks up again, the boy’s mother is guiding him away across the terminal to where their flight is boarding. The boy glances back over his shoulder, waves. Arthur, all too aware of Morgana’s gaze on him, awkwardly waves back.

The boy disappears into the crowd and somehow Arthur feels that he’s lost something important.

“Love at first sight,” Morgana whispers. “Who’s the girl now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi, hope you enjoyed! More to come (also an update to 'no stars' is on the way but we all know how bad i am with updating that poor fic. it'll happen soon i swear, two exams left and i'm free)
> 
> Please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed this!
> 
> And of course, thank you so very very much for reading, much love, take care and I'll see you next chapter!


	2. the second time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which family drama starts to brew, dark-haired boys are clumsy, and Arthur just wants a break.

The second time it happens, Arthur is seventeen - two months shy of adulthood and all its associated freedoms and yet, somehow, his father is _still_ insist ing he returns home for the holidays rather than spending it with his mates. They’d all been planning a week-long party at Leon’s but whatever, Uther is Uther, and Arthur gets in enough t rouble as it is. As he’s constantly reminded, as _Uther Pendragon’s son_, his actions reflect the family and therefore the company.

So, here he is, bag in hand, marching through arrivals in a crowd of various suits-and-ties. His own tie is askew so he makes a half-hearted attempt at straightening it with one hand. It makes little difference.

A sign to his left indicates the men’s room and he turns towards it. The more time he wastes now, he thinks, the longer it’ll be before he has to face his father. He’s sure he’s done _something_ worthy of a lecture since they last spoke.

Inside, it’s mostly quiet. Wordless jazz warbles from speakers by the door, and the air tastes of generic disinfectant. He drops his bag by his feet and stares at himself in the mirror.

He’s flushed from the plane, hair mussed, eyes bloodshot and shadowed. His father will surely take that as a sign he’s hungover but he’s not. Not today, at least. He tries to be the model son, really, but it’s so bloody _tiring_. And it sucks.

He scrubs at his face, fixes his tie. There’s a comb in his jacket pocket so he runs it under the tap and straightens up his hair. Between sport and studying and keeping up appearances there’s been so little time to just… exist, as himself. Even his mates, great as they are, had to be quietly vetted and approved by Uther.

Sometimes it feels like his whole life is scripted.

More so now, as Morgana’s so rarely at home. Now nineteen, studying law, she’s always off doing something _important_ . The money Uther gave her at 13 was, indeed, handled _sensibly_, spent on tuition and travel and investments. Sometimes Arthur thinks she’s avoiding their father, but every time he asks, she only claims she’s working towards her future.

It’s been long established that she won’t inherit the company. Despite being the eldest, the _good_ child, Uther is old-fashioned. In this, Arthur wins out.

But it’s whatever, right? He and Morgana made a pact as kids that she’d be co-running the company the moment Uther was gone, will be damned. Arthur’s arrogant, sure, but he knows where he falls short, and Morgana has exactly the kind of analytical mind he knows he would need. They’re in this together.

For now, though, Uther is grooming Arthur to take over and trusting Morgana to set her own goals, so it makes sense, what she’s doing. Still, Arthur notices that she calls Uther seldom and him twice a week. Semesters abroad seem to be deliberately coordinated to overlap with the holidays so she can’t make it back for Christmas, or if she can, it’s only to exchange greetings and offer gifts before she’s off again.

Arthur’s never quitesure why.

They’ve always argued, Morgana and their father, and more so in recent years, but he’s always figured that’s because they’re a little too similar. Both are stubborn, strong-willed. Neither likes to back down.

But Uther loves his daughter. She’s the good child, the sensible one, the one he trusts to behave during press conferences and interviews and meetings. _Arthur_’s the one that needs constant supervision. And sure, sometimes he treats her differently because she’s a girl but she’s always laughed it off in the past so why would things change now?

When he’d pressed, a couple months back, all she said was, “He won’t tell me anything about my mother.”

“You mean _our_ mother?” Arthur had asked, because Uther certainly skirted that topic, and Morgana hadn’t flinched, but something _hurt _had flickered in her eyes.

“That’s what I said,” she said, and that was the end of that.

They’re close, the two of them, but Arthur’s not stupid. He knows when he’s stumbled onto the beginnings of knowledge he’s not meant to have. He’s good at that, shoving little titbits of forbidden information into a box in the back of his head and never looking at them again. Things like “_my_ mother”. Things like the girls Morgana gushes about over the phone. Things like that little tingle in his chest when a classmate drunkenly kissed him at a party – a warm two seconds before Arthur shoved him away.

Arthur realises, belatedly, that he’s been staring into his own reflection for a little too long. He turns, shoulders the door open. Uther will likely be impatient now, readying a speech about patience being a virtue, tardiness a vice or... _something_. Better hurry up.

White-knuckling his bag, he sets a quick pace, rounding the corner to head for the exit, and -

is knocked half off his feet.

He flails backwards, disoriented, and manages to get a hand on the wall to steady himself. His attacker, a scrawny youth with a mop of rumpled dark hair and _ enormous _ ears **, **scrambles up from the floor, gapes at him for a long second and gasps “Sorry!” before he’s off again, bag thumping against his side.

Arthur takes a long breath. “S’alright,” he mutters, too late.

Those eyes were so blue, he thinks, the moment replaying itself in his head. So very blue.

He starts walking again, unsteady.

Blue, and somehow _ familiar _.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are looking at a freshly minted adult who never has to sit a high school exam ever again!!! Hopefully that means I'll actually have time to get some writing done soon (but i'm out of the country for a month so not until mid-December probably). Regardless! Here ya go! 
> 
> Please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed!


	3. the third time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur ignores his ongoing gay crisis, Merlin serves sandwiches, and Morgana contemplates ditching her brother in Istanbul.

The third time it happens, Arthur is nineteen, and quite possibly the hungriest he's ever been. Morgana is officially the world's worst travelling companion, as he's fast learning that when Uther says "sensible" he really means "willing to suffer for the sake of a few extra quid". So they're taking the cheapest possible flight, which means flying _ economy _ . It also means leaving home long before breakfast to make a 7am departure, _ and _ they get the joy of a 9-hour layover in Istanbul. They're not even going on holiday. It's a _ wedding _. Arthur wants to die.

"Who even gets married at twenty?" he grumbles. 

Morgana ignores him. Despite the 3am wakeup there's not even a hint of purple beneath her eyes. She seems, like always, unbothered.

Arthur, meanwhile, is dissheleved, exhausted, and deeply missing the days of business-lounge buffets and accelerated boarding. Next time he'll book his own damn flight.

"I mean seriously," he continues, "What is this, the Middle Ages? It's not like they'll die at thirty. And why Korea? Neither of them are Korean." 

When he still gets no response, he adds, "And why am I even invited? I barely know either of them."

Morgana sighs deeply. "I know you're just trying to get a rise out of me," she says, not looking at him. "We've been over this. You're my plus-one, so if you're good I'll owe you a favour."

"Define _ good _." 

Morgana makes a sharp turn away from the food court. Sometimes he wishes they hadn't grown up together - she knows all his weaknesses. He stops, and calls after her, "All _ right _ . Fine. You win, Morgana."

For a few seconds, it seems like she'll keep walking forever but then she turns, cracks a smile, and heads back towards him. "Glad we're in agreement," she says, and they keep walking, back on track. "Oh, one more thing."

Arthur gulps.

"If you say anything even _ slightly _ elitist to _ anyone _-" she pauses, fixing him with a meaningful look- "I'll leave you in Turkey. Don't test me."

It's not even 5am yet but the airport is bustling, most places packed with everyone from businessmen to weary mothers to students rubbing tired eyes and yawning over their coffees. Arthur can't remember the last time he was up this early. He scans the approaching shops, too hungry to think but knowing he ought to take advantage of the moment and eat something he'd never have at home. Uther's chef is great but, good god, sometimes a man just wants a burger. Arthur can't wait for when he can finally eat whatever he wants. 

Even though he's at university now, he can't seem to wiggle free quite as cleanly as Morgana did. Somehow Uther convinced him that living at home was better (_ "All that time you spent complaining about boarding school and you're telling you'd like to live in a dorm?") _ . Sure, he's no prisoner, but over everything looms Uther's watchful gaze. Too many times now he's come home from a pub or a party or a girl's flat to a lecture about responsibility and public opinion and _ remember what family you belong to, Arthur _. He's starting to think a prince might have more freedom.

Anyway.

They've been walking for a while now and Morgana is starting to shoot questioning, impatient glances his way so before she can ask what he wants to eat or worse, insist upon her own choice, he points to a sandwich bar up ahead. It's tiny, barely more than a counter and a display cabinet, manned by a single young man. He's dark-haired, handsome in a young, gangly way and as Arthur watches, he sips from takeaway coffee cup, swaying his hips to distant music. "Let's try there," Arthur says.

Morgana arches a brow, watching the man dance with a look all too knowing. "Why _there_?" 

Arthur fumbles for a reason. "The sandwiches look decent, that's all. What's with the interrogation? Jeez Morgana." He can feel himself flushing. They both know that they're too far away to see the sandwiches.

Morgana, bless her, only purses her lips and starts walking towards the shop, leaving Arthur hurrying to keep up.

The server looks up as they approach and for a moment seems at a loss, giving first Morgana, then Arthur, a bright blue-eyed stare. Something crackles under Arthur's skin and he shoves it deep down, looking away.

"Morning!" The server chirps, and Morgana returns his greeting. Arthur feigns arrogance, pretending to study the shop's offerings. "What can I get you two?" 

The guy has a faintly Irish edge to his voice that Arthur shouldn't find attractive but by god he does. He bites his tongue, stares intently at an egg sandwich. 

Morgana came out barely four months ago. She's pretending not to be hurt by Uther's poor reaction but Arthur knows his sister too well, sees the pain in her eyes, the way she avoids home more than ever. Arthur doesn't blame her, but he tucks his anger carefully away; bone china wrapped up in silk. He can't afford to hate Uther - he's the only father he's got.

And besides, Morgana can stand up for herself. She handled it the way she handles everything, matter-of-fact and at home, well away from paparazzi. She spelled out all the ways Uther was wrong, finished her wine, and left. If it had been Arthur… well. Not that Arthur needs to worry about that, of course. He likes girls well enough, and beyond a few pointed comments about contraception and its many wonderful benefits, Uther takes no issue with it. That suits Arthur just fine. Besides, witnessing the "conversation" that followed Morgana's announcement, he would much prefer to do what he's always done: not think about it.

So he doesn't. With Morgana watching him, a tiny smile playing about her mouth, he looks up at the totally unattractive, irritatingly cheery, borderline _intolerable _idiot of a server, and says quickly, "A long black and one of those egg sandwiches but with some smoked salmon added, thanks."

Morgana sighs.

"Sorry, we don't have any salmon." The server smiles, apologetic, and if that isn't adorab- no. Arthur lifts his chin.

"What do you mean you don't have any salmon? Don't you know who I am?"

Morgana fixes him with a glare. "_ Arthur _," she says, a dangerous edge to her voice.

But the server seems only mildly irritated. "I know you're a prat," he says, still smiling.

Seeing Arthur tense, Morgana elbows him sharply and says, "I _ wasn't kidding _ about the elitism," but Arthur's on a roll. 

"You can't insult me like this," he says, straightening his shoulders, "I'll have you know, my father-" He falters as Morgana and the server exchange weary smiles. There's something in the guy's face that makes Arthur swallow his next words and tilt his head. "Do I… know you?" 

The guy blinks. "Uh," he says. "I'm Merlin?"

Morgana hides a smile behind her hand.

Arthur frowns. "So I don't know you." He could've sworn that- never mind. The name is so bizarre he'd surely have remembered it. 

Merlin flushes, high on his cheekbones. He hesitates, eyes darting around Arthur's face. "No," he says, finally. "You wanted an egg sandwich?"

Morgana cuts in. "No, he wants ham. _ Don't _ you, Arthur?" she shoots him a look that, normally, would make him bite his tongue but he's too flustered to read it properly.

"Morgana, I don't even _ like _ ham," he says.

Her smile is shark-like. "Exactly." 

Before he can argue, the transaction is complete and Morgana is handing him a ham sandwich to the background music of Merlin's stifled laughter. He considers throwing it in her face but then realises, with a cold sinking horror, that she's holding _ his wallet _ in her other hand.

"How the fuck-"

But Morgana only laughs. "Take the sandwich, Arthur." 

So he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me longer than I intended because I too have been spending a lot of time at airports lately. But anyway! Here ya go!
> 
> Drop me a comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, love y'all, have a nice day!!


	4. the fourth time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Uther is, as always, a stellar parent, Merlin flirts with his eyes, and Arthur finally has a realisation.

The fourth time it happens, Arthur is twenty-one and battling a growing headache. His ear is burning from the phone pressed against it, the airport is crowded and noisy and _why couldn’t Uther have waited until Arthur reached the business lounge. _

Arthur isn’t quite sure where he is. It’s a gate he’s not meant to be in, that’s for sure. With his phone ringing and Uther’s name flashing on the screen he had sat down in the first seat he could find and the result was a disgusting plastic chair beside a man with terrible body odour and a woman loudly eating a cheeseburger. His stomach rumbles.

“Are you listening to me, Arthur?”

Arthur blinks back into focus. “Of course,” he says, but he’s not. “You were at the part about how I’m wasting my potential.”

Uther gives one of his trademark sighs. “This is _important_, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t much like that tone. It’s getting a sharp edge to it and in all honesty, he’s been sitting here getting lectured for over an hour so he really thinks he deserves a bit of respect. Besides, it’s not his fault that the guy opposite him has distractingly pretty blue eyes. Or that said guy keeps shooting him knowing little looks under his eyelashes, like they’ve already -

Like they’ve got _history_.

He looks away.

“_Arthur_.”

“_Yes_, Father,” he says. At this point Arthur’s not even sure what he’s supposed to have done. Or not done. It could really be either.

He looks up. The guy is still watching him.

“Yes, Father,” he says again.

“Yes, thank you Father, I do in fact know what a condom is.” He’s answering mostly on automatic now so he doesn’t quite realise he said that aloud until the guy opposite him snorts a laugh. They lock eyes. Arthur, emboldened, pulls a face and makes a vaguely disgusted gesture at his phone.

The guy smiles, bites his lip a little, and suddenly all Arthur can think about is what those lips might feel like on his own. Those teeth.

Two years ago that would have been a dangerous thought – and it still is – but he’s not shoving it away anymore like he might have then. Thoughts are thoughts. There’s no harm in entertaining them. After all, Uther’s no mind reader.

And Arthur _does_ like girls. Really. He’s been in love before, though admittedly a lot of that ended badly. He thinks of Sophia and shudders.

It’s just -

Well.

_Some_ guys are attractive. Objectively. And when Arthur’s drunk he doesn’t seem to care who he’s kissing. If it came down to it, he might not mind having a go.

After all, Morgana seems happy enough. A couple months back she hired a personal assistant, a sweet girl named Guinevere, and watching them blush and dance around each other makes something in Arthur’s heart warm and unfurl.

If that happened to him, one day, he wouldn’t… _object_, necessarily.

He glances again at the guy opposite him. There’s something strangely familiar about him.

Obviously he’s still planning on settling down with a nice girl, having a family, like Uther would expect. As if on cue, Uther asks, “What ever happened to that nice girl you were seeing? Name starting with M?”

“Mithian,” Arthur says. “It didn’t work out.” With Uther launching into a new lecture about valuing one’s relationships and the guy opposite busy searching for something in his bag, Arthur takes a moment to properly look at him.

He really is unfairly pretty. His hair’s shorter than Arthur’s, messy, and there’s a tattered red scarf draped around his neck. With his high cheekbones and slim wrists he looks almost delicate, but something in his eyes tells a different story. There’s an edge of danger there.

Arthur swallows, throat peculiarly dry. He looks away.

“Yes, Father,” he says, because Uther had paused in his rant.

The line goes silent.

Finally - “Did I hear you incorrectly or did you just say yes, you got her pregnant?”

Arthur splutters. “No, Father,” he manages, “I misheard you.”

“What did you _think_ I said?” Uther asks, and he’s bordering on the icy tone he uses on his employees when they’re late to work.

“I -”

He’s interrupted, thank god, by the announcement that boarding is about to start. It may not be Arthur’s flight but Uther sure as hell doesn’t know that so he takes advantage of the moment to end the call. “We’ll talk later,” he promises, but in truth he’s entertaining the idea of leaving his phone at the airport.

“Good,” says Uther. “Have a safe flight.” He hangs up.

Free, Arthur leans back, eyes shut, and just listens to the sounds of the terminal going on around him. His ear is on fire, but at least _that’s_ over.

He opens his eyes to say as much to the guy opposite, just to see what happens, but he’s already leaving, bag in hand. Tossing his scarf over his shoulder, he looks back at Arthur. Their eyes meet. The guy grins, raising a hand in farewell.

Arthur freezes.

Something about that posture, that smile, is far too familiar.

In his mind’s eye, he’s years in the past, hot and bored and -

surely not.

He manages to wave back, soaked in déjà vu.

That mop of dark hair disappears into the crowd, and watching him walk away, Arthur thinks back, too, to a ham sandwich and an angry Morgana and -

_surely_ not.

There’s _no_ _fucking_ _way_ -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two-thirds done! Maybe i'll be able to get this whole thing finished before I move out of my parents' house. (Now that I've said that, it's probably not going to happen. But I'll try.)
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment below if you enjoyed!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, love you all, and have a fantastic day!


	5. the fifth time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur is grieving, tangerines are shared, and Merlin is a surprisingly good distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this is the heaviest chapter in terms of angst. Arthur is not a very happy man in this one. (But! Next chapter is our happy happy ending so look forward to that!)

The fifth time it happens, Arthur is twenty-five.

It’s barely 8am and he’s disheveled, slumped in an uncomfortable seat in an unfamiliar gate. Years ago, in what could have been the very same seat, his father had lectured him over the phone – if he closes his eyes he can still hear the irritation, the disappointment, in Uther’s tone.

He’s never going to hear that again.

It should be a relief, really it should, but instead all he feels is the tears pricking at his eyes again. It’s been a long morning.

Not that this was _ unexpected _, exactly. Uther hadn’t been well in some time, his health rapidly declining after a stroke last year. When he relocated to France, intent on setting up another branch of the company, it only got worse, and he had spent the last few months mostly bedridden.

And in all that time, Arthur visited only once – too busy to spend time with the father he was finally free of, too caught up in his own problems and his own life to notice Uther slipping away. He can’t help but think he’s disappointed his father one last time.

Somehow that feels worse than the loss.

He reaches up to tug at his tie, the knot too tight against his neck, only to clutch at empty air. Right. He’s not wearing one. Looking down, he realises too that his shirt – grabbed off the floor that morning, wrinkled but mostly clean – is only half buttoned. He doesn’t bother fixing it.

On the phone, Uther’s home nurse had told him not to rush. After all, it wasn’t like Uther could get _ any more dead _, but the moment he hung up, Arthur had called to wake his personal assistant and get booked on the next flight.

Guilt aside, _ grief _ aside, there was too much to be done: funerals and wills and lawyers and _ stress _. As a child, Arthur had watched Uther go through the same mess. He’d been young – Morgana surely would remember it better – but even so, he has vague memories of his father locked away in his study, himself and Morgana thrust solely into the care of their nanny for some weeks.

Arthur had never thought his turn would come so soon. Nor had he thought he would come to find the organised chaos of the airport so comforting. There is something about being in the middle of it all, in this crowded terminal with chattering passengers lining up to board, that eases the storm clouds in his mind, releases some of the tension in his jaw.

This isn’t his gate. With his flight leaving soon, he really ought to get moving, but he can’t help wanting to put it off just a little longer. At his own gate, with nowhere else to go and nothing else to do but wait, he thinks he might break.

Besides, he should call Morgana.

She usually manages to knock the scattered pieces of his feelings into something resembling rationality, and even estranged from Uther as she is, she has a right to know.

She picks up on the first ring. “You’re calling about Dad, aren’t you?”

So she already knows. That’s probably a good thing. “Yeah,” he says, and he’s proud that his voice doesn’t crack. “I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

“I just got off the phone with the nurse.” She pauses, takes a breath. “How… how are you managing?”

Arthur manages a dry laugh. He can read the concern in her tone, and the questions she’s not asking – _ do you feel better or worse with him gone? “As well as you’d imagine,” he answers.  
_

To his left, a blond boy tugs on his father’s arm. “Papa, I need to pee.” His father, a tall, stern-looking man in a suit, smiles down at him wearily. The two of them are halfway along in the queue to board, with twenty odd people stretching behind them. He sighs a little but takes the boy’s hand, still smiling. “Well, we’d best go for a little walk to the restrooms then.” They forfeit their place in the line, the boy chattering away, the man laughing along.

Arthur bites his lip hard. “I’m at the airport right now,” he tells Morgana, so much unsaid between the words. If only he’d been a better son – if only he’d done what he was told and messed around less and visited more, maybe Uther wouldn’t have been under so much stress, maybe the stroke wouldn’t have happened, or the recovery would have been easier, or maybe –

“You’re not to blame, Arthur,” says Morgana, because she knows him too well.

His eyes are stinging again. He wants to snap at her, but he holds it in, says instead: “I’ll probably be gone for some time. Lots to sort out. Will you fly in for the funeral?”

Arthur’s mother was French-born, and she and Uther had been visiting her family in Toulouse when she died. For that reason, Uther had told Arthur some months back that should he die while in France, he wanted to be buried beside her. Something clenches in Arthur’s gut at the thought of his father remaining on foreign soil forever. He swallows. Best not to think about that right now.

Morgana is silent for a few seconds, and he can almost hear the gears turning in her head as she thinks it over. Finally, she says, carefully, “Do you want me there?”

In the car that morning, Arthur had planned out a great convincing speech: _ I know you don’t want to _ _ come _ _ and I can’t say I blame you – he treated you poorly. But he did love you, Morgana, and - _

What comes out instead is: “I don’t want to be alone.”

His voice is choked. To his own ears, he sounds like a boy again. There’s a sense of unreality about it all; that Morgana is the only family he has left, the only person in the world now who knows what it was like, growing up motherless in that household, under Uther’s watchful eye.

“Oh, Arthur,” she says.

He reaches up to adjust his non-existent tie again, catches himself, lets the hand drop. The slacks he has on have loose threads in the seams by the left knee. He twists one between his fingers, stares at scuff marks on the floor.

“Of course I’ll be there.”

Words fail him, so he doesn’t reply.

Morgana seems to understand anyway. “Is there anything else I can do?” she asks, voice soft, and god, if that doesn’t break his heart. Between their father’s temper and Arthur’s own arrogant _ prattishness _, where did Morgana learn to be kind?

He collects himself, piece by piece. “No,” he says. “No, I’m fine. Are you -”

“I made peace with losing him years ago,” she says. There’s something like grief in her voice, too, but he knows she’s being honest.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that. He settles on, “I’m glad you’re okay,” and in the space before she replies, he adds, “I should probably get going. Flight to catch and all.”

“Take care,” she says. “And call me if you need anything.”

“You too, Morgana.”

She hangs up, and in her sudden absence, Arthur looks around to realise that the flight has boarded, and the gate is empty.

It’s just him and rows of empty seats; grey morning light and the far-off sounds of announcements and suitcase wheels. A handful of flight crew walk past, but their footsteps and laughter sound hollow, distant. One woman is halfway through telling an anecdote to her friend while another, ahead, elbows the man beside her and leans in to murmur something that has them both giggling. They’re all polished up, perfectly pressed shirts and smoothed hair and bright, customer-service-ready smiles. Arthur thinks, wistfully, of childhood afternoons spent in the break room at his father’s office, watching similarly polished workers chattering away over sandwiches and coffee.

The dam breaks.

One moment he’s watching the group fade out of sight, the next he’s bent double and sobbing into his hands. Distantly he recognises the action for the necessary catharsis that it is but _ oh god it hurts. _He wishes he was home, or better yet, ten years old again, sick with the flu, Uther stroking his forehead and promising that he won’t leave until Arthur’s better, that his work can wait, that Arthur is far more important. Immediately he regrets remembering that, and it’s all he can do to press his hands tighter against his face in some weak attempt to hold himself together. He’s going to shatter, he thinks. He’s going to break into a thousand tiny pieces and no one and nothing will be able to put him back together again and -

There is a hand on his shoulder, a voice asking, “Are you alright?”

Arthur’s head snaps up, ready to tell this stranger to _fuck right off_but then he falters.

There’s a man standing before him, dark haired, blue eyes narrowed in concern. There’s something startlingly familiar about him.

For a moment, they only watch each other, Arthur with tears still flowing, this man with brows drawn together and hand still half-outstretched. It’s the scarf that finally makes it click – a battered, moth-eaten thing, somewhat at odds with the man’s elegant features and yet looped around his neck like it belongs there.

Time stops.

The man seems to register some change in Arthur’s expression because he withdraws his hand, opening his mouth to say something but Arthur's already laughing, incredulous. In that moment he forgets the tears, forgets the misery and the stress, forgets his pending flight. Every angry word he might have said to this man evaporates on his tongue.

Instead, he says, “It’s you!”

The man blinks, tilts his head to one side. “I -”

“_Mer_lin, isn’t it?” Arthur says, swelling with pride when the man nods. He rises to his feet and Merlin takes a few quick steps back, mouth half-open. “You’ve been haunting me for _years_!”

Merlin's blinking rapidly now, hands up in some weak defensive move. “I –I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, laughing, but Arthur can see the recognition on his face.

“_Yes_, you do.” He steps closer. “The sandwich bar. The phone call – you were even wearing that scarf!” The fabric is soft when he brushes it with his fingers, having reached out automatically. He’s too caught up in the ridiculous euphoria of finally finally finally recognising this man, too lost in it to really think about what he’s doing. “How _bloody_ fitting that I finally see you again on the day my father dies.”

Merlin frowns. “You -” He stops, eyes widening. “Oh my god.” He presses a hand to his mouth. “Oh my _ god _, I’m so sorry.”

Now Arthur realises what he’s said, and it all comes rushing back. He sits down.

Merlin fidgets with his scarf. “I’m so sorry,” he says again. “I -” He gulps. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Arthur covers his face with his hands, mumbles, “Absolutely not.”

“Okay.”

There’s a rustle of fabric, and then the weight shifts on the row of seats; a shoulder brushes his own. A zipper is pulled.

Arthur lifts his head. “What are you doing?”

Merlin holds a bright orange tangerine in one long-fingered hand. As Arthur watches, he peels it carefully, methodically, into the bin beside his seat, then breaks it in half. “I don’t even know your name,” he says, passing one half to Arthur.

Arthur takes it and, without thinking, breaks a segment off and puts it into his mouth. It’s perfectly ripe – sweet and refreshing and delightfully soothing against his dry throat. He swallows. Says, “I’m Arthur.”

Merlin’s smile is somehow sweeter than the tangerine. “Nice to meet you,” he says, and Arthur can feel the tension melting away again. “How about I tell you about my day?”

Arthur can’t help himself. “And why would I want to know about that?”

“It could be distracting?”

“Oh, you’re _distracting_, all right,” Arthur says, and even he isn’t quite what he means by that, but Merlin only laughs, and starts to talk.

He talks for a long time. The hard plastic of the seat starts to dig into Arthur’s legs but he barely moves, just sits back and ignores the discomfort and the looming deadline of his flight and _ listens _. It’s been a while, he thinks, since he’s listened to someone talk for this long without interrupting but the way Merlin speaks – soft and warm and focused – is incredibly soothing. Somehow he makes the most mundane of topics sound like poetry. He really is a great distraction.

Arthur learns, amid anecdotes and detailed descriptions of seemingly irrelevant bits and pieces (“You wouldn’t believe the _ size _ of it, Arthur,” Merlin says, “It was the biggest frog I’ve ever seen!”), that Merlin lives in London - thank god - and is on his way to Ireland to visit his mother for two weeks, but his flight was rescheduled so he has a few hours to fill in. He works at a library. He wants to get a cat.

Arthur finds himself relaxing in his seat, fingers sticky and sugar on his tongue, and he watches Merlin's clever blue eyes darting around as he thinks, and he laughs at his terrible jokes and thinks it’s unfair, how pretty Merlin is even under the airport’s horrendous fluorescents.

“You’ve missed a couple buttons,” Merlin says suddenly, cutting himself off mid-sentence. “Here, let me.” He reaches out with those long fingers and Arthur lets him, holds still while Merlin leans in and quickly fixes the shirt. He’s close enough that Arthur can smell the shampoo in his hair. The tip of a finger brushes the bare skin of his chest for a second and Arthur forgets how to breathe, overcome with the sudden and sharp longing for something more than fleeting touches; for warmth and closeness.

And then Merlin sits up, clearly satisfied with his work, and tilts his head against the back of his seat. Arthur takes a steadying breath.

_ God _, how he wishes he could stay here – forget all his own sorrows and eat tangerines and talk about nothing with Merlin. Merlin, watching him, seems to read some of that on his face because he frowns a little, straightening. “Arthur -”

He’s interrupted by the airport’s announcement jingle.

“This is the final boarding call for passengers May Collins, Harry Meyers and Arthur Pendragon booked on flight AF1081 to Toulouse. Please proceed to gate D7 immediately. The final checks are being completed and for the doors of the aircraft will close in approximately five minutes time. I repeat. Final call for May Collins, Harry Meyers and Arthur Pendragon. Thank you.”

_Fuck_.

Arthur jumps to his feet. A sign to his left reads _B13 _and ahead, the gate signs fade off into the distance, blurring together. He grabs his bag.

“Merlin,” he says, and stops. Something tells him that there’s something_ particular_ he should say, but a louder voice reminds him that he has five minutes to make it all the way to Gate D7 and Uther, were he alive, would be _very disappointed_ if Arthur missed his flight, so he settles on, “I have to run, _literally_, so – thank you. Have a safe flight.” Merlin only blinks at him. The road ahead seems endless. He’s got five minutes.

“Take care,” Merlin says, finally, voice strangely thin.

Arthur wants to linger, to puzzle out why Merlin’s_ looking at him like that_ but by his watch he now only has _four_ minutes so he claps Merlin on the shoulder then turns and starts to run.

He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever to write because it's more than twice as long as my usual updates (yay?) and also I've been going through a bit of a whirlwind recently - uni enrollments and packing and exhaustion from heatwaves + a lot of time spent staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping because moving to a new city is terrifying. But! Here it is!
> 
> If you enjoyed, maybe drop me a comment below because that shit Makes My Day. As always, hope you're doing well, thank you so so much for reading and I'll see you next chapter!


	6. the time he doesn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which old habits die, and something new begins.

Arthur doesn’t go back to London at all for six months.

Six months of lawyers and tailored suits; stiff-collared businessmen sizing him up even as they offer their condolences. Sharks. He takes over the company, as per the will, and they shadow his every move, watching for any sign of weakness. They find nothing. He’s been groomed for this, after all – spent the last few years of Uther’s sickness effectively in charge anyway, so this, really, is more of the same.

Six months.

He pushes his grief deep down, handles the logistics. At the funeral, he stands beside Morgana in solemn black and watches the light dance red through the signet ring that now adorns his finger. _What a sad mirror we are to the children we once were_, he thinks.

When all’s said and done and the sharks ease off a little, he takes her by the arm and gets her on board - equals, as they always were with each other, and as they always should have been with Uther.

She handles things well, puts her clever brain and her law degree to good use, while he straightens his tie and attends parties thinly veiled as board meetings, rubbing elbows with all the right people and saying all the right things. Keeping up appearances.

He meets women. Meets men.

The papers have a field day when word gets out and he spends a day in bed with a stomach full of rocks, feeling like he’s been dancing on his father’s grave. What was he_ thinking _ , rolling around with near-strangers every other night when Uther’s barely been buried for a month? <strike></strike>

Morgana coaches him through it. Her recent engagement had journalists pondering if she had been _ waiting _ for her father to die – waiting for his disapproving eyes to close before she made it official. (She hadn’t, but that was besides the point.)

“We can’t just stop living, Arthur,” she tells him, sitting on the floor by his bed. “They won’t talk for long.”

Still, it seems that in Uther’s absence, all eyes fall on them.

Morgana’s always been good with the press, and though Arthur too often loses his temper when the questions get too prying, he learns how to answer without answering at all. He builds himself a good reputation and eventually the articles pondering his sexuality fade to the back of his mind. <strike></strike>

But then, five months in, the question comes up in yet another interview and he’s tired of dancing around the truth. With the world watching and his father rolling in his grave, he sighs. Says, “Well, I suppose I’m bisexual.” The relief is immense.

Yet somehow, despite all of it, as the weeks fly past and the pain slowly fades and he learns how to feel like himself again, he can’t stop thinking about _Merlin_. It’s ridiculous. In fact, it’s bordering on pathetic.

Walking through arrivals, back on English soil for the first time since his father’s death, he finds himself seeking out that crop of dark hair, that tattered scarf, but to no avail.

He keeps replaying their conversation; still crisp and vivid in his mind even months later - the way he _ran away_ instead of asking for Merlin’s number like a normal person. Will they ever meet again, he wonders, or is he cursed to chase a ghost for the rest of time?

Some mistakes can’t be undone. He’s learned that the hard way, a thousand times over. God he hopes this won’t be one more.

The taxi driver barely glances up as he gets in, only puts out his cigarette and tosses his newspaper into the back seat. “Where to, mate?” he asks, and Arthur lets himself relax, knowing this man either doesn’t know, or doesn’t care who he is.

He starts to give his address, then stops.

With his nerves still rubbed raw in the grey London light and the familiarity of the city; too many memories of his father and life _before_ swimming in his head, he doesn’t want to go home just yet. Instead he says the first place that comes to mind – a coffee shop he used to pass on his way to work in the mornings, not far from his neighbourhood.

He’ll have a coffee, he thinks, then walk home. The fresh air will surely do him good.

He gives the driver a handsome tip and hops out, bag in hand, into the evening drizzle.

It’s nearing 5pm and the street is quiet; a peak through the window of the cafe shows only rows of empty tables. There’s one person visible within – a bearded man with rumpled dark hair, leaning one elbow on the counter and reading the newspaper. Perfect. Provided this guy isn’t nosy, Arthur will have plenty of peace and quiet to collect himself before he heads to the emptiness of his home.

A bell above the door tinkles as he walks inside. It seems startingly loud, and Arthur finds himself almost wanting to turn back but he presses forward to stand before the counter. The man looks up, a cheery smile on his lips. Then he frowns.

Arthur doesn’t notice, because he’s not looking at him. Instead, his eyes have caught on the newspaper, on his _own name_, upside-down in big block letters.

_Arthur Pendragon: Billionaire, Benefactor, Bisexual_.

Props for the alliteration, he thinks, but_ oh fuck_ his picture is next to it. So much for a peaceful cup of coffee. His face warms.

Best say _something_ to break the tension. He looks up, and his eyes meet those of the man behind the counter. They’re so blue.

Oh _god_.

His stomach drops.

For a moment, neither speaks, and the only noise is the incessant ticking of Arthur’s watch and the rumble of distant traffic – sounds made near-deafening in the silence.

Finally, Arthur opens his mouth and blurts the first thing he thinks: “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Merlin, wide-eyed and seeming a little rattled, breaks into a shaky grin. “I tend to show up where I’m least expected.”

Arthur swallows tightly. Merlin. _Merlin_. Here? What kind of a joke -

His eyes fall on the newspaper again and he quickly glances away. Oh god, Merlin _knows_.

As if to deliberately further the impact, Merlin rests his elbows on the counter and leans forward, looming over the paper. “So you _are_ into men?” he asks mildly.

_Fuck_. Instead of answering, Arthur says, “I thought you worked at a library.”

“Oh, it burnt down,” says Merlin, deadpan. Then he cracks a smile. “I’m _kidding_. They don’t give me a lot of shifts so...” He gestures grandly at the general surroundings. “Voila. Now I make coffees.”

When Arthur can't manage a response to that, silence follows and they just look at each other, the newspaper and the counter a firm wall between them.

And then, Merlin says, “How have you been coping?”

Arthur scrunches up his nose. “_Coping,”_ he repeats. “With what? Grief? Identity crisis? _Business_? You probably know all the juicy details.” He gestures, flippant, at the paper.

Merlin flushes up to the tips of his ears and swipes it off the counter and onto the floor. Then he looks up at Arthur with wide eyes, startled at himself. He’s got that deer-in-the-headlights look about him and beneath the beard and the shaggy hair, there’s a glimpse of the scrappy young man Arthur found himself staring down at the airport, time and time again over the years.

There’s just something about him. There’s always been something about him.

Even as a kid stuck in his father’s shadow, even as a teen with no stable sense of identity and so much _anger…_ even then, Arthur could feel it. Just as he feels it now, holding Merlin’s gaze over the counter. Something _unnameable_. He tries to put his finger on it but it squirms away and he’s left only with the sense that, somehow, he has to hold on to Merlin. What the hell has gotten into him?

The silence stretches on a little too long. They both notice. The air between them feels heavy, like if Arthur reaches out his fingers will slide through something gelatinous. He clears his throat, face hot. “What’s with the beard?” It’s meant to be a simple question – curiosity – but as Merlin’s eyes clear he finds he can’t help but add, “You look like a broke pirate.”

Merlin barks out a laugh, and Arthur swells with a peculiar sense of pride. _He made Merlin laugh._ Merlin shoots back, “How d’you know that’s not the intention?”

Arthur laughs too, then stops. Merlin looks at him. The silence settles heavy again and Arthur is at a loss for words. Let’s be real, Merlin probably feels nothing of this… _thing_. Arthur’s just some rich fuck-up who keeps popping up like some… elitist stalker.

But the way Merlin’s looking at him.

It’s like -

“Ayo Merlin! You good to close up alone? Hamish dipped, and I’m keen to head out.”

A man appears in the doorway of the kitchen. Merlin turns, startled, and stumbles through a reply that slips past Arthur’s ears. The man’s eyes land on Arthur, his lips quirk to the side, and then he’s gone, apron tossed onto a hook and left swaying gently from the momentum.

And, well. They’re alone.

Shaken out of his reverie, Arthur realises for the first time that, yes, the place is set to close - chairs stacked, counters glistening with damp wipe marks. Outside, the rain is coming down harder than ever.

“Yeah, we-” Merlin swallows- “Close at five.”

The digital clock by the counter reads 16:59:35.

“If you want a coffee...”

16:59:37

“...I can make you one, but, uh…”

16:59:39

“...I’ll have to restart the machine, and that’s...”

16:59:47

“...more trouble than it’s worth, really. I’m not even that good, aha, I’m actually still a trainee here it’s, ah, pretty weird they let me do closing shifts. But I’ll make you one, if you like. Just tell me what you-”

17:00:00

“Merlin.” Arthur’s heart is in his throat. He can feel it. Bulky. He can’t swallow around it. Thirteen years of hit-and-miss and chasing fate’s thread. If he doesn’t do this now, he’ll walk away and it’ll all be worthless. If he doesn’t do this now, then his fears are true – this thing he feels is nameless because it doesn’t exist and he’s built it up in his head to fill whatever void he’s been carrying all this time. To patch up years of not being enough. “There’s no need.”

And Merlin looks… disappointed. The taste of it lingers bitter in the air. His hands curl on the edge of the counter and he looks down and away, towards the newspaper lying on the floor. For a moment, Arthur’s hyper-aware of how _batshit insane_ this all is. He’s been in this cafe, with a man he _barely knows at all_ , for all of _ **five minutes** _ and he’s about to-

But Merlin’s expression clears, and he smiles. “No problem! Nice to catch up, glad you’re back in London. Best of luck with everything and-”

“Merlin.” Arthur’s bordering on frustration. He’s going to have to-

He’s going to have to _ spell it out _ . By god, can’t the world give him a break. In the airport, wasn’t Merlin the bold one? Why is it different out here, in the real world, away from that weird timeless placeless space ? _ Fuck _. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

But Merlin’s still going, insisting there’s no offence taken and really he appreciates that Arthur’s not ordering anything smack on closing and it is good to see him but, well-

“_Mer_lin.”

And he stops.

“I meant.”

The rain is hammering down now. Outside is as dark as night.

“I _meant_-”

But he doesn’t know what he means. What the hell is he doing?

_ What the hell is he _ _ **doing** _ _ ? _

“Dammit all to hell, man. Don’t you believe anything of fate? How many times have we passed each other in Heathrow?”

Merlin starts to smile. “I bet I remember more of it than you do,” he says. There’s something vulnerable in his tone despite the amusement on his face. Slowly, deliberately, he takes off his apron. Hangs it up. Arthur watches, confused, as Merlin returns to the counter, leans his elbows on it. Somehow he feels taller than Arthur, now. Larger. There’s a presence about him that Arthur hadn’t quite noticed before. “If you won’t have a coffee,” he says, careful, “What do you want?”

He’s looming, almost. The counter feels less like a wall and more like a playing card. The air is electric. Arthur can’t find the words -

but he has to.

“I want,” he says, “To understand you.”

Merlin releases a breath. “Well,” he says, eyes on Arthur’s, “Unless you stalked me here, you must live nearby.” He gestures at the suitcase in Arthur’s hand.

Arthur nods, cautious.

“I imagine you have coffee there?”

“Merlin, I’ve been gone for half a bloody year! You think my pantry’s stocked?”

“Fine, we’ll buy coffee on the way.”

And Merlin’s already at the door, keys in hand by the time Arthur realises what he’s said.

“Will we?” he manages.

Merlin grins. “Well… only if you’re paying.” He reaches out. “Come on then, unless you want to wait another decade or two.”

And Arthur stumbles forward, and reaches out as well. Their fingers curl together like they were made to hold each other like this, and Merlin’s so warm that something deep within Arthur melts a little.

There’s no telling where this will go, or even what he wants from it. Maybe just a chat over coffee and nothing more. Maybe a night. Maybe more.

There’s so much to process and to figure out. Groundwork laid, but all the building up that comes after left waiting for him to attend to. He thinks of his mother, barely a glimmer of memory, and his father, cold on foreign soil... of years spent struggling to grasp who he is and what he stands for. He’s not quite there yet, but Merlin’s eyes are clearer than summer skies and he feels, somehow, that he’s right where he’s supposed to be.

Here in this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my darlings, with the lord as my witness i have Done It! Finally! Yikes. 
> 
> Started this fic more than a year ago and ghosted you all since January of this year or something, I apologise!!! Life really hit me like a freight train (as I guess it did all of us; 2020 has been a hell of a year). Apparently when you're. Yknow. Growing and learning and trying to be an Adult and get a Job and pursue an Education in the middle of all this *gestures vaguely at the world* it's HARD and my motivation towards writing took a colossal whack.
> 
> Anyway. i beat my fears down with a cartoon mallet and this is... not quite the ending i envisioned last year, but i'm not quite the same person i was last year. And it's hitting Emotions Hours for me this fine evening so with the very real risk of getting all sentimental on you poor readers I will cut this short - 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Thanks so much for sticking around! I hope you enjoyed this final chapter.
> 
> Maybe one day I'll write a follow-up but honestly I think i need a few months to just be extremely self-indulgent with some other fandoms I've fallen into this year so no promises. 
> 
> If you enjoyed, please consider dropping me a comment! Tell me what you liked! Or keysmash! Or point out lines that made you feel things! Idk up to you but just know that it'll really truly make my day.
> 
> Love you all, have a good one! Cya next time!!


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